


Destruction

by WahlBuilder



Category: The Technomancer (Video Game)
Genre: Angst and Feels, Healthy Relationships, Love, M/M, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-01
Updated: 2019-05-01
Packaged: 2020-02-15 17:20:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18674098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WahlBuilder/pseuds/WahlBuilder
Summary: Viktor is told there is a Vor brought to the HQ. And it's Anton and he's not entirely himself.





	Destruction

Anton is sprawled as though he’s lounging in a luxurious armchair and not sitting on the most uncomfortable chair in the whole Bureau.

Viktor tries to not show anything when Anton’s hooded gaze rakes over him. He was boxing when the agent called him to interrogate the Vor they “so luckily picked up, sir”, and he managed only a quick shower and he’s aware his hair is still slightly damp.

Anton’s eyes — darker, _bloodier_ than usual — stop on his face. “You know it’s the wrong cuffs, don’t you.”

Viktor clenches his teeth. The husk in Anton’s voice is even stronger, his accent thicker, and there is a challenge in his words.

“I know you have better cuffs just for me, _mon Colonel_.”

He knows the ‘mon’ part is a shortening for ‘monsieur’ — but shaped by Anton, it always sounds as a different ‘mon’.

“But you won’t change them, will you. Even though I can break out of these before you can snatch that gun.”

Always so perceptive, even when he looks like he’s drunk on blood, his pupils wide, the golden champagne of his eyes obscured by darkness.

“Because to change them, you’d have to come close and you know I _will_ bite. You don’t fear injury, do you. That’s not why you wouldn’t come close. You wouldn’t do it because I would bite and you would _love_ it.”

He has to close his eyes briefly, even though it’s a giveaway, a confirmation of Anton’s words.

“You don’t look well, Mr Rogue.”

Anton licks his lips. Again. Such a...

“You should see the other four guys.”

_Four_. Shadow.

“You know how it is, _mon semblable_ ,” Anton purrs, so velvety. “You know the itch, the need. To go out into the city and let it swallow you, let it bathe you in violence and pain and blood—”

“Shut up.”

Anton leans forward, and it takes everything Viktor has to not draw back.

“I saw you do it. Slipping into the city, disappearing into the shadows, following the scent of blood until you find trouble—”

“Silence!”

“But you can’t hide from _me_. _I_ am the shadows, _mon Colonel._ You let yourself be embraced by _me_.”

Anton leans back, stretches his legs, wields a smile full of teeth. “Let’s play, _mon Colonel_. I know you want to. To put your hands on me in any way possible, for violence or something else, it doesn’t matter.”

“I need to...” Viktor hates himself for the roughness in his voice. He has to control himself better. “Tell me whether you are injured.”

Anton grins. There’s blood on his teeth, too. “You’d have to check yourself. I’m in such a state that you can shoot me and I won’t feel it. Maybe I will even ask you to shoot again.”

Anton is goading him, he knows, pressing all his buttons (and there’s the stench of blood in the air). He has to control himself. Anton might bleed to death just to spite him.

(Why is everything so overwhelmingly perfect between them sometimes, the way Viktor doesn’t deserve?

And why do they try to destroy each other in the worst ways possible other times?)

He thinks more (trying to ignore Anton’s heavy breathing, his hooded heated gaze, his whole form: thick thighs in dark jeans, his white shirt untucked and slightly parted over his stomach where buttons have been torn off, a suggestion of the tattoo (it’s an extension of the flames brushstroke, Viktor knows), creaking of the leather jacket each time Anton shifts, bubbling with energy, unable to stay still...). Then Viktor takes off his tie, leaves it on the table by the door, leaves the gun there, too—

“Colonel?”

Confusion doesn’t become Anton Rogue. (But for moment Viktor is full of pride at being the only one who can make Anton Rogue sound confused.)

He rolls up his sleeves — slowly, accurately, folding the cuffs and buttoning them up again so they hold. Then glances at Anton and makes a few steps to him.

Anton sits up, tense as a string. “Don’t. I _will_ hurt you, Vitya, I’m in the state to...”

It’s so difficult, Viktor finds, to overcome the instinct to obey that voice. (What they do in the bedroom or sometimes somewhere else, he doesn’t carry anywhere else. Aside from the marks Anton leaves on him.

He tells himself that it doesn’t affect anything else. He tells himself he _doesn’t_ want Anton to just take charge, to appear out of the shadows and tell him to _not_ do something, to turn away, to drop a case, a target, to come to him instead.)

He approaches ~~Anton~~ the chair and drops to one knee. “I will check you for injuries now, Mr Rogue,” he says, summoning as much of the _agent_ into his tone as he can. Looks at the spot a few breaths away from Anton’s eyes.

The leather creaks again.

“I’m all right.”

“Let _me_ be the judge of that.”

“I’m not injured. You don’t put your hands on most detainees,” Anton growls. The growl is slightly flattened by the husk, and his usually well-enunciated syllables are woven by his unique accent.

“I have sufficient reason to suspect you are not in prime condition.”

_“Vitya.”_

He frowns, looks up. “Mr Rogue, I would advise—”

His heart definitely stops when Anton leans to him, quick and sudden — and he forgets to breathe because Anton’s mouth is only a breath, _half_ a breath away from his, and the reek of blood is so strong, and he wants...

“Back. Off.”

He closes his eyes, unable to suppress a shudder, but he swallows _Yes, Master_ just in time. He swallows again, then looks at Anton. Anton’s eyes are so, so dark.

“ _No_. You said yourself, you are in no state to assess whether you are injured or not.”

Anton leans back, fury in his face, in his eyes. ( _Delectable_.) “You _fuck_.”

The jeans are not torn and, though speckled with blood, are not soaked, so, no major injuries of legs.

“What was it, Mr Rogue? Knives? Knuckles?” He runs his hands into the jacket and up Anton’s (very hot) sides, over the shirt, brusquely as possible.

“Bit of everything.” Anton licks his lips again. Dehydrated.

His hand finds a spot high on Anton’s left side, crusty with blood, but soft prodding reveals no holes in the fabric. Not Anton’s blood, it seems. The man is easy to read (most of the time) and impossible to predict (most of the time): he can throw himself in a fight disregarding his own safety and end up bleeding out, with a concussion, broken ribs, a knife in the thigh (but always triumphant) — or he might be so cautious that the only sign he’s even been in a fight would be the slight sweetness of blood following him.

It seems this time is a bit of both. Bruises — but little more. And that unspent energy, in the tightens of powerful muscles, the restlessness, the heavy, deep breathing. A barely constrained beast.

(Viktor wishes he watched Anton let go this time. Bloody-minded or not, heedless of his own life or not, he’s always a sight.)

He rests a palm on Anton’s thigh (hot even through the rough fabric). “Mr Rogue. You need to drink.”

“Not drinking anything here.” He’s almost pouting. Cute.

“I’ll drink from the same cup.”

“That is _not_ reassuring. I know you have tolerance for many substances, _mon Colonel_.”

He sighs. Sometimes, Anton can be very stubborn — but Viktor has cultivated patience in himself long time ago. “You are dehydrated.”

“Who cares?”

_I do._

This holding cell is one of the most secure in the HQ, reserved for interrogation of special persons. No cameras, and the walls would swallow every word, every scream. He can just lean forward, open the fly of Anton’s jeans, take him in his mouth. Or he can straddle Anton, just... Take anything he wants...

_“Que veux-tu pour le dîner?”_

He locks gaze with Anton.

_“Tu m’as manqué.”_

_I missed you._

This is how they destroy each other.

**Author's Note:**

> You know who you are, you two =***


End file.
